“Nothing! nothing!” replied Sir Lucius,
in some confusion. “So you are Mr. Vernon?”

“That is my name, sir.”

Sir Lucius pulled himself together, and thoughtfully
stroked his mustache. An awkward pause was broken
by Mr. Lamb, who proceeded to state at some length
the business that had rendered Jack’s presence
imperative. Sir Lucius listened with rising indignation,
as the story poignantly recalled to him his bitter
experience with the Munich Jew. Jack, seeing
the ludicrous side, with difficulty repressed an inclination
to smile.

“Let me have the picture,” he said.
“I can settle the question at once.”

Sir Lucius rose eagerly from his seat. Mr. Lamb
took the canvas from an open safe and spread it on
the table. Jack bent over it, standing between
the two. He laughed as he pointed to a peculiar
brush-stroke—­insignificant in the general
effect—­down in the lower right-hand corner.

“There is my mark,” he said, “and
this is the duplicate I painted for Martin Von Whele,
nearly six years ago.”

“I thought as much,” exclaimed Mr. Lamb.

“Are you sure of what you are saying, young
man?” asked Sir Lucius.

“Quite positive, sir,” declared Jack.
“I assure you that—­”

“Yes, there can be no doubt about it,”
interrupted Mr. Lamb. “I was pretty well
satisfied from the first, but I would not trust my
own judgment, considering the poorness of my eyesight.
This is the copy, and the person who stole it from
Mr. Vernon’s studio disposed of it later to
the Jew in Munich, who succeeded—­very naturally,
I admit—­in selling it to you as the real
thing, Sir Lucius.”

There was a double entendre about the “very
naturally” which Sir Lucius chose, rightly or
wrongly, to interpret to his own disadvantage.

“Do you mean to insinuate—­”
he began, bridling up.

“As for the genuine Rembrandt—­my
picture,” resumed Mr. Lamb, “its disappearance
is still shrouded in mystery. It can be only a
matter of time, however, until the affair is cleared
up. But that is poor consolation for the insurance
people, who owe me L10,000.”

“It is well you safeguard yourself in that way,”
observed Jack. “I shouldn’t be surprised
if your picture turned up as unexpectedly as mine
has done, and perhaps before long. But I can hardly
call this my property. Sir Lucius Chesney is
out of pocket to the tune of eleven hundred pounds—­”

“D—­n the money, sir!” blurted
out Sir Lucius. “I can afford to lose it.
And pray accept the Rembrandt from me as a gift, if
you think you are not entitled to it legally.”

“You are very kind, but I prefer that you should
keep it.”

“I don’t want it—­won’t
have it! Take it out of my sight!—­it
is only a worthless copy!” Sir Lucius, purple
in the face, plumped himself down in his chair.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Vernon,” he added.
“As a copy it is truly magnificent—­it
does the greatest credit to your artistic skill.
It deceived me, sir! Whom would it not
have deceived? There is an end of the matter!
I shall forget it. But I will go to Munich some
day, and beat that rascally Jew within an inch of
his life!”